Observations in the Metre of Tamburlaine on the Norman Mailer Turbulence and Its Relations: with the Presence of Byron, Dostoievsky, Bodenheim, and Everyone

—But Norman Mailer’s turbulence is still

The deep, deep turbulence a man can have‍—

Compelled to see himself: a moving world,

Impinging, hitting, charming—at one time,

The selfsame moment, by the selfsame mind.

Complacency at least is fought by him

Who asks what flesh can do to formal thought‍—

And keeps on asking, in the smoke and sun.

We must see lusciousness in thought‍—

The pale madonna in the hot desire.

The need is sterner now than ever; now

Our self-respect demands, demands, demands

We place the viscera with logic, time.

The turbulence of Norman Mailer helps.

The ostentation of this writer makes

Us ask: The nature of true modesty‍—

Is what? Assertion, can it go with us

Who always question what we truly are?

How good we are, how strong, how weak, how real?

Then show off in your tortuous way, O mind!

Abase yourself in swirling smoke of hours.

The blue flame of the factory within

May be resplendent yet in sun without.

But work is needed; Norman Mailer’s work:

A novelist confronting smugness more‍—

And fakery within, even when it’s his.

The way to glory is the way of show:

The show of fall and rise, of murk and light‍—

The show of self as drama all the day.

So Mailer has a bit of Byron, yes‍—

Of Dostoievsky and of Bodenheim‍—

And Lord knows what—each artist has and is

A world of love and anger by himself.

We can but wish that love and scorn so merge

In him, they stand for form in everyone

Of us. These lines of now are a salute,

A criticism and—a friendly Oh!